Malade Imaginaire
by Midnight Raine
Summary: Joly questions a blemish. The Amis learn hypochondria is contagious. Yet another "Let's put the Amis in a Funny Situation and Let Chaos Ensue!" (LAFSLCE)


"Malade Imaginaire"  
Rated: PG  
Category: Humor  
Summary: Joly questions a blemish. His friends learn hypochondria is contagious.  
Credits: Thanks to my brother, N64_Man as he is known, for adding the bit about pies.  
Disclaimer: I own nothing. Some lawyers came and took my furniture, sold my computer, and claimed my apartment for France. They said it was all in the name of Victor Hugo, but Monsieur L'Genius wouldn't do something like that. I am currently typing this fic up on a hamster-powered toaster. Enjoy.  
  
"Joly… Joly? Grantaire's drunken rant is over. Put away that mirror and come sit with us." Laigle beckoned to his friend.   
  
"Honestly, you carry that pocket mirror around with you like a lady." Courfeyrac shook his head.  
  
Several inaudible groans came from Grantaire about "those bloody wenches", then only soft snores.  
  
Joly began the meeting by ignoring Combeferre speak about child labor laws and the recent growth of the prostitution in favor of examining his tongue in the mirror. He had found something different and unexpected, about three degrees from his left ear. One glimpse of the death spot turned the student into a statue- pupils unnaturally round with horror, mouth jammed in a scream.  
  
He had been that way for quite a while, but so far, no one inside of Café Mussain had noticed.  
  
"Joly's dying again," sighed Laigle. "Third time this week. Come on Joly, nothing kills that fast."  
  
"Pox! I've caught pox!" he stammered.  
  
"Where could you possibly pick up the pox?" said Enjolras.  
  
"Quite right, you know," added Courfeyrac. "If you have anything, it's cholera. Nasty bug it is. And it's making the rounds, too. If not you, someone in this very room probably---"  
  
"STOP!" Laigle yelled. "Joly, you couldn't have picked up anything from our tenement. "They're all very happy, disease-free people." He emphasized the last words.  
  
"True." Joly began to stroke his chin diabolically. His shifted his glance across the room. "It must have been Grantaire."  
  
Enjolras spoke. "As questionable as Grantaire's cleanliness is, we cannot---"  
  
"*I'm* sitting next to Grantaire!" Marius wailed. "Joly, what does that look like to you?"  
  
"Is Joly really the right person to ask?" said Courfeyrac.  
  
"Oh, can you do better?" Marius was close to hyperventilating. "You should know I have a very pretty face, and if anything were to happen to it… Well, look at Grantaire. He's ugly, see how it is?"  
  
Enjolras nodded solemnly.  
  
"Bossuet is bald and he lives a horrible life," added Joly.  
  
The Eagle of Words clenched his fist.  
  
"Joly, tonight you can sleep on the lawn."  
  
"But it's my flat!"  
  
"Ah yes, but I'm bigger than you."  
  
"Please, as my final wish, you must let me spend my dying days in a nice, warm bed-"  
  
"You claim the mattress gives you hives."  
  
"With good food—"  
  
"You said my cooking poisoned you. "  
  
"With my dear friend---"  
  
"Leave. Now."  
  
Courfeyrac and Marius were continuing a conversation in the background. "Honestly, Marius, I think that's a blemish."  
  
"A what?"  
  
"Pimple, boil, blemish…"  
  
"Liar!" he screeched. "Blasphemy!"   
  
"Yours too, Joly. Both of you should wash more often."  
  
Louison, who was passing through on her way to the kitchen, took notice of Joly and began to laugh.  
  
"Mighty fine zit you got there, M'suer!"  
  
"See? You're fine. Much ado about—"Courfeyrac was cut off.  
  
"Don't you dare disbelieve me! Skepticism will make your head explode!" spat Joly.  
  
"…Excuse me?"  
  
"It will. That's why Combeferre doesn't deny anything. Because he'll blow up, that's why." Joly leaned back in his chair and looked very smug. "I may be a novice about pox-marks, but I know a skeptic when I see one."  
  
Enjolras called the room to order.  
  
"Gentlemen, may I remind you we are here for a discussion? If you must fret about trivial things, please take it elsewhere."   
  
"TRIVIAL? TRIVIAL? Don't you care for me at all? Go on, Joly. How can I tell if I'm at risk."  
  
"Well, headaches of course."  
  
Courfeyrac went pale. "I get headaches."  
  
"And buzzing in the ears. From inter-cranial pressure."  
  
"My ears ring."  
  
"That's even worse."  
  
"What do I do? What do I do?"  
  
"I don't know. They don't teach us these things."  
  
"They bloody well should!" cried Courfeyrac, grabbing Joly by the arms and shaking him.  
  
"We could try a hole to relieve pressure."  
  
"Come on, man! What are you waiting for?"  
  
"And what are you going to use, pray tell?" asked Laigle.  
  
"I'm not sure. Something pointy."  
  
"I found a fork!" exclaimed Courfeyrac.  
  
"It will have to do."  
  
"Another thing I wouldn't trust Joly with: sharp objects," said Laigle.  
  
Joly froze. "Bossuet, dear Bossuet," he said sweetly, "You were bald at twenty-five."  
  
"Really? I'm bald! Oh, I'm bald, why didn't anyone tell me?" He threw his arms in the air mockingly. "All this time I thought I had thick golden locks down to my waist! Is that why my life is so awful? Or is it just you."  
  
Joly was not to be put off by his blatant sarcasm.  
  
"It could be a ringworm, tinea capitis."  
  
"A worm?" Laigle began scratching his head subconsciously.  
  
"Don't scratch! It will drive the worm deeper into your brain!" cried Marius.  
  
Grantaire had awoken quite awhile ago, after a light sleep. Joly screaming "Pox!" in a shrill, girlish voice will wake anyone up, no matter what they've been drinking. He had no money to go to the theater. Large words confused and frightened him, so he did not read. Also, the numbers on the pages reminded him he could not add, and this always depressed him. His friends were an endless source of drama and thus, cheap thrills. Bossuet was always being dumped every other week, and regardless of the time of year, Joly often announced he had only two months to live. And there was Enjolras' occasional stalker; usually teenage girls who spoke little to no French and walked around carrying battered notebooks marked "Fic".  
  
Grantaire sat back and watched the drama unfold, until he decided to do engage in a melancholy, mini-tirade. "Why are you all so interested in prolonging this atrocious, miserable death sentence known as life? I don't care for your diseases, much less your cures! If God decided to take me now, I'd be thrilled!"  
  
"Grantaire, you don't look well at all," said Courfeyrac.  
  
"He's right. So pale, with bags under you eyes," added Laigle.  
  
"Which are quite bloodshot," continued Marius.  
  
"Perhaps he's just hung over?" sighed Enjolras. He had given up all hope of ever getting any intelligent conversation in tonight. He had one fleeting thought that the entire Amis De L'ABC were all a bunch of buffoons (excluding himself, of course, who was beautiful and infallible.) Maybe this whole revolution thing was a bad idea. Horribly messy business, this insurrection was. He should just get back to his first love: baking.  
  
Maybe pie would make Grantaire look better….  
  
"No! More than that!" Joly cried. "Listen to his voice. See how hoarse it is? Pharyngitis!"  
  
"Tonsillitis!"  
  
"Epiglottitis!"  
  
"Peritonsillar abscess!"  
  
Enjolras lost it.   
  
"ENOUGH!" he yelled. "Stop it, all of you! You're being ridiculous! Joly hasn't the slightest idea what he's talking about---"  
  
A blush crept along Joly's face, a lovely pinky-reddish shade that camouflaged his pimple completely. He opened his mouth as though to say something, perhaps a contradiction, perhaps a diagnosis. Enjolras didn't allow him to speak.   
  
"But neither do the rest of you! You're not dying, you're not sick, and no, Courfeyrac, I don't believe my head will explode. Combeferre doesn't deny anything because he has more common sense than all of you, combined. If skepticism caused any sort of head injury, Grantaire would be dead by now. Not that it isn't dangerous."  
  
They were all rendered silent with shock.  
  
"Enjolras, your arms." Grantaire finally spoke.  
  
The youth's sleeves had been pulled to his elbows. His arms were covered in little red dots. They were too plentiful to be a figment of anyone's imagination, and the sudden rush of itchiness proved they weren't an exaggerated bit of acne. The horrible spots had spread all over his face, to his back, and were flourishing in the Really Itchy Spot That It's Physically Impossible to Scratch.  
  
Enjolras frantically unbuttoned his shirt, at which point the author-ess was tempted not to continue writing, just sit back and drool. The pox had spread all over the gallant leader's back, a universe of dots.  
  
"Hey, look on your forehead," said Courfeyrac. "The Big Dipper."  
  
*******  
  
"So, how's Enjolras?" Combeferre asked one morning. He and his friends were taking a short lunch break before they got back to their classes.  
  
"Hm? He's fine. Can you believe it? Twenty-two and he's never had the chicken pox!" Joly sipped his coffee.  
  
"What's so unusual about that?" Combeferre said. "I'm older then he is and I haven't had so much as the mumps."  
  
"Combeferre, weren't you rooming with Enjolras?" asked Laigle.  
  
"Yes. In fact, I had just left to visit my parents the day before he got sick. I can move out, though. They lent me enough money, so I can--- Excuse me. This shirt is scratching me horribly."  
Everyone scooted away from the student. None of them felt like commenting on the little red spots that were forming on his arms, on his face…  
  
It didn't even occur to Joly to tell Combeferre that chicken pox were most contagious *before* the patient broke out in a rash.   
  
Instead, he thought about asking if Combeferre was ever worried being open-minded would make his pancreas implode.  
Finished August 17th, then left to rot on my hard drive.  
11:33 PM  
So, my first Les Miz fic… What'd you think?  
You know, I'm terribly lonely and none of my friends can pronounce Lay Mis-er-rahb. They all think I'm crazy. So…  
Drop me a line at MissCaran@aol.com. Please? I need to know I'm not the only one who chooses boyfriends on how they measure up to our Barricade Boys.   
Hey, if you review, I'll most likely end up stalking you, or writing you a two paged thank-you note. You don't have a choice.  
Or, do the next best thing. Go to my websites.  
http://www.geocities.com/nightshade320  
http://embark.to/buslore 


End file.
